when asked to reflect on my childhood
from my age now, I close my eyes, take a
breath (or two) in, and prepare to remember.

based on what my parents have told me,
I was born on a day in February a day
later than they expected me in the
European country of Ukraine;
didn't live long there, only until I was
about two or three years old.

they say that we moved to the United States
in the summer time as refugees, seeing as my
father's family is Jewish and Jews were on the run
then; my mother adds that she wanted a
new beginning with new chances and new hope,
oh! and perhaps a better life for me.

up until I had to go to school, I grew up
speaking Russian at home with no English
and a little bit of Ukrainian there too;

at age 5 or 6, can't remember which, I started
school - it worried my parents, but my
Kindergarten teacher said,

"not to worry, she'll learn it with time."

and guess what? I did.
By now, I became bilingual.

when my mother's mom (my grandmother)
came over to the States in 2000, she settled in
with us, only 2 years after my sister was born;

yes, I still do love my grandmother,
even if she abused me - verbally and physically;
her ways of discipline were simply different from my
parents and indeed, tension and stress levels were
raised in the house from it.

this continued up until I was about 10 years old
when my family (my mother, father and sister)
moved up to Fort Collins for my dad to get his PhD;
there, everything seemed to be getting better.

from a fairly young age, I was told that I
was a skinny child and that I should try being
active in sports:

first sport I did, I did for only 3
months - gymnastics. during my time there,
I became very flexible and landed my splits;

second sport I did, I did for about 2 years - dance.
I participated in the most common ones, tap and ballet,
and often dreamed about becoming a professional
ballerina. needless to say, it didn't happen;

third sport I did, I did for about 3 years - martial arts.
this was the sport that taught me respect and
self-confidence that would follow me everywhere.

other sports I did include tennis and figure skating,
both contributed to my adolescent growth and health,
yet school prevented me from being as active as I once was.

having moved 2 times in a short amount of time meant
losing friends and hoping to make new ones;

first time I moved, I was worried that I would lose my one
and only best friend due to distance between us - it so
happens that distance only made our friendship stronger
and this year we celebrate being friends for 12 years.

making friends in a new town for me was hard work but
in the end, I found a few that I could trust and call "friends";
they became my support system when teachers and bullies
in junior high twisted and broke me down into pieces.

over the next few years, everything was alright
until I started having a ****** identity crisis
at age 16;

I started doubting who I was, who I loved,
where would I go from here. it didn't help that my dad
became more and more ignorant, saying that
bisexuality doesn't exist.

my family was (and still is) close and we could (can)
tell each other anything without being judged or
told that our views were wrong;

but,
how was I supposed to tell my parents, especially my dad,
that I might have a crush on a girl?

still, at age 19, I don't know who I am...
I'm a late bloomer, I know that.

as I open my eyes, I realize
there are many other things that
I have repressed, never wanting to look
back at them again;

my childhood will always remain a memory,
nothing more.

as you turn 73 today,
I wish you good health
and happiness;
because life without
those two things
is a life in
solitude.

bitter cold
months
came and left,
taking my love
with them and
leaving me
with dry,
cracked skin;

forget-me-nots
were planted
across her
moist grave to
remind me that
love doesn't
end in death.

i.
we stood our ground
among the deserted trees
with our arms outstretched,
fingertips pointing to
the dead and forgotten hills
like the bare branches,
and our naked bodies
firmly rooted down.

ii.
the bitter cold seeped into
our veins, making our tender
skin become dry and flaky,
crumbling with each blow of the wind;
making our hard-working heart
slow down and its beats
reverberating against the drums
in our ears until they become soft taps.

iii.
wilted plants and weeds learned
to grow around us, just as rocks
eroded under and between our toes,
along with vermin that quietly nibbled
on our emotionless eyes;
there we stood, very still like
scarecrows- except we were real beings
exiled from society for being different.

i licked, smacking my lips,
the frosting off of a
cinnamon bun
for the first time since
june of 2011;

it tasted bittersweet,
just like i remembered it last.

the only sweetness was
remembering that the night
we split one for the two of us,
was also the night when two
souls became one.

it took courage and true love
to eat something i didn't like to begin with.

the bitterness was
a combination of thoughts
and feelings of
betrayal and replacement,
just like the dough.

*it took everything to eat all of it,
it took everything to forget you.

these roses in my garden,
they blossomed as white
as some fresh snow;

our love was just as
innocent and pure.

but it soon began
to fade away and jealousy
painted those roses red,

just like the blood in your
veins.

jealousy poisoned our
relationship and the rose,
making them both

*dead.

the moon keeps
all my darkest
secrets in its
craters;

yet the stars
tend to gossip
among each
other,

each trying
to discover
something
new

about me.

the black
holes keep
trying to
**** me in;

the unknown
and the curious
lay beyond
that opening,

calling my name.

the milky way
holds all my
wildest dreams;

and the planets
help to protect
my sanity,

each keeping
my spirits high
and lifted up

from the ground.

dip your quill
into a bottle
of ink of any color;
dip it once
or maybe twice,
or perhaps as
many times as
you wish.

start writing
on parchment
or on a napkin
that was laying
around at a cafe
where you were
having a time alone,
away from others.

why don't you crinkle
and wrinkle it,
only to throw it
onto the floor?

why not spray it
with some perfume
or cologne,
add some scent to it?

maybe dip it in
water
or set it above a
candle and watch it burn?

maybe allow yourself
to carefully open it up
and let others see what
it is you carry around with you?

surely,
others will try ripping it up
for you;
but you will rise above them
and piece the bits back
together again,
even when they say it's
impossible.

broken glass on the floor
spread out, oh so evenly.

you know,
i broke that mirror.

it was me, who realized
that beauty shatters
us all.

those vile words,
so twisted and cruel;
they, too, cut us until
we bleed.

we bleed
until we are pretty,
pretty enough
for ourselves

and no one else.

perhaps,
peter pan did return
from neverland and
straight into our land:

there were no more
lost boys to play
with, seeing as they
were all here;

there was no more
hook or any other
pirates to defeat,
as they were already dead;

no
wendy, john, or michael
either,
only tink
and the mermaids
(who can forget them?)

perhaps,
he decided to grow up
and become a man,
going to school and then
into an office;

perhaps,
when he was in his
death bed, he
weakly smiled and said,

"to die would be an awfully big adventure"

and with that,
his face,
that was shining light,
went out
like a candle.

smoke escaped from your parted lips,
intoxicating the room with its stench
and your hands shaking with the syringe,
aiming for a lesser bruised area in your arm;

"this is the last hit, I swear..."

before she had kicked you out,
you had stolen over a hundred-fifty dollars
from your very own mother's wallet
to fuel this cruel addiction of yours;

"I'm not addicted..."

just look at you:

rotten teeth like those of maybe a rat's,
face all wrinkled as though you're older than 16,
bits and pieces of your skin picked and dug deep,
and only some patches of hair remain.

"I won't be like her..."

no one else will be attracted to you
like she is, your drug dealer and girlfriend;
together you'll live in isolation somewhere,
with lack of sleep and a high dose of euphoria.

"the only harm being done is to myself..."

tell that to the cops as they bring a warrant
to search your current place of residency
and discover your kitchen for making more,

tell that to the cops as they drag you to jail
to force you into rehabilitation for help
and keep you there until you're all better.

she hoped that by
plucking the petals
off of the daisies,
he'd leave her alone
and leave her mind
unharmed;

but Lucifer, as she
had once learned,
was not a forgiving
character and
there was no
escaping him;

he took her vulnerable
ways and turned
them against her,
watching as she
scrambled for her
life, in her own mind.

a warm whisper in my ear
tickles the heart and
pulls its strings;

please be careful with them,
make sure they don't
snap

and

they will play a beautiful
piece before you that some
like to call "love".

small boats made from old
newspapers, a small puddle
that bleeds into a narrow
stream, and us. well, not
us exactly; more like our
souls trapped into a smaller
form than we're used to.

in those boats,
we sailed that
narrow stream
to uncertainty.

once there,
everything
became
one big blur;

everything
we knew
about each
other,

wasn't true.

we had lied
to one another,

but why?

we watched
as the words
on our boats
oozed out,

knowing that
when the rain
stops, the damage
would still be done.

i.
we made wings out of
saran wrap and twigs,
simplicity at best.


ii.
we prayed for the
autumn winds to blow
us away like seeds.


iii.
we reached towards
the never-ending sky
and jumped.


iv.
our wings stepped on,
our bodies crushed,
we faced the darkness.

make a deal with
a demon or the
devil, himself,
and automatically
grant yourself a
free ticket to ride
down to the
pits of Hell.

when your side
of the deal is up,
don’t be alarmed to
hear the viscous sound
of growling and barking;
they’re only Hell Hounds,
really nothing to be afraid of,
seeing as they’re only doing their job.

sure, they will tear
your clothes into shreds,
search for your heart to
slice it open, and make you
bleed until death greets and
shakes you warmly by the
hand to welcome you to
your new home.

the flames of Hell will
lick your soul for days,
which will seem like many
years back in Earth,
as you are bound with
chains on each leg and arm;
you will scream for help, you
will scream for a loved one,

but in the end,
no one can hear
you and your pity.

careless whispers
buzzed on the bus;

and i sat alone
in seat with my
head facing the
outside world.

it, too, looked
busy - occupying
itself with bodies
of people, rushing
up and down streets,
each with secrets
in their pockets;

and suddenly,
i didn't feel as
alone as i did then.

slouching in my
seat with music
playing in my ears,
i occupied myself
with sleep
for the rest
of the way.

their words prepared
the noose from which
I hung myself
that cold winter
morning.

their words whispered
and repeated themselves
in my ear
day after day,
night after night.

their words haunted
and invaded my dreams,
disturbing the equilibrium
that existed in my mind;
dreams turned into nightmares.

their words flowed
with the blood that
I forced to be shed
from my wrists, my thighs,
my everything.

their words prevented
me to be open with those
who really cared about me,
causing me to believe that
everyone hated me and wanted me

dead.




now:

their words have disappeared

and
so have I;

I surrendered to
*their words.

like birds,
we sat on
tree branches
of our own lives,
singing to please
others before
ourselves.

wherever
they flew,
we simply followed
mindlessly,
believing in desired
freedom and no
limits.

while others
sang of joy,
we preferred a more
mellow tune;
from our lips
we called out a sorrowful
melody that only
a few number could
understand.

a tragic end,
we faced together.

i saw you fall,
ever so gracefully,
to your death;

but before i could
mourn,
it was my turn to fall.

my world turned
cold and all my
nightmares were
alive.

at least now,
we're at ease
and together.

to live
and
to be alive
are different
concepts:

to live,
one simply has
to exist;

to be alive,
one has to believe
in making some
difference.

for me,
these concepts
come in waves,
up and down;

some days,
i feel dead
inside and nothing
can bring me
back...

other days,
i feel awake
inside and out,
ready to lend a
helping hand.

every day,
i do my very best
not to drown in
a body that seems to
be missing
a soul,

yet i am not perfect
and i have a tendency
to simply surrender to
what it is that pulls
my legs down to the

bottom.

one day,
it rained outside;

we didn't care
that we were in socks
when we went out to
dance under it,

we didn't care
that we were in socks
when we went out to
jump in the big puddles.

one day,
it rained outside;

you took my hand
lead me until we reached
a meadow; it was there
you pulled me close and
kissed me under the rain,

you took my hand
lead me until we reached
a meadow; it was there
you pulled me close and
whispered in my ear:

*"I love you"

children were laughing
behind the thin walls,
singing those nursery
rhymes we all have
heard of once before.

no one knows why
they come out only
at night, when we’re
all trying to sleep
with eyes shut tight.

if you listen real
close, you’ll hear
them whisper your
name when it’s
close to sunrise.

they only
want to
you to
help them
before it’s

too

late.